


The Other Side of Sunrise

by karmascars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, M/M, Porn With Plot, Sibling Incest, well a bit of a plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 22:11:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/pseuds/karmascars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's fallen further and deeper in love with Sam than he ever thought possible, and he knows it's wrong -- but perhaps, were Sam to feel the same way, it could actually be more right than anything else in this world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other Side of Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> Angsty, smutty Wincest. It's even a bit fluffy at the end. Whee~! I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> I feel like I should warn you, there is also a bit of a het scene, because Dean does that sort of thing. 
> 
> Internet cookies for Mistress Whimsy, who bullied me into finishing this and then beta'd it into submission!

  
  
  
  
Yet another two-star town, some backwater hole barely deserving a dot on the map. One gas station, one motel, one diner. 

When the brothers stop in that town for the night, they check in to the motel under the names Page and Plant, and then go to the diner for dinner. Dean is starving; Sam is merely humoring him.

He finds himself doing that a lot, lately. Giving in to his brother's whims. And why shouldn't he? Sam owes Dean so much. 

Crossroads. A heartbroken choice. No time, and an eternity, for regret.

So when Dean shoves his face full of pie and grins, Sam smiles back, even if that’s the only reason to do so. He knows exactly how many days his brother has left.

Dean sits and methodically fills himself like he does at every diner, nothing about his actions belying the turmoil roiling just beneath the surface. He's grown used to reacting, the occasional clenching low in his gut. Most of the time he can ignore it.

He looks at his brother and sees, between the lines of youthful exuberance, how tired and wrung-out the kid has become. He watches as his brother rubs swollen eyelids and stares holes in the table. After all, Sammy always was the sensitive one.

Calmly, Dean finishes his pie. Laying the fork down, he watches Sam’s struggle to stay awake for a moment longer before moving, awkwardly, to touch his hand. "Hey," he says gently. "Let's go get some shut-eye."

Sam nods blearily and allows Dean to lead him out of the diner and into the car. He dozes away the few blocks to the sad little motel, then stumbles into their room to flop on a bed and fall almost immediately into deep sleep. Concerned but amused, Dean stands in the doorway and maps the rise and fall of his brother's back as sleep evens his breathing, and as his waking cares fall away from his face by the light of the weak street lamp. 

In sleep Sam is still entirely innocent -- on nights when the nightmares don't come. These nights, he can be a child once again, and Dean can relax.

Except he can't, not tonight. His heart begins to race as he stands there watching his brother sleep, and with growing dread he feels the familiar tightening and realizes he needs to leave.

Dean staggers away, shutting the door as quietly as he can as his mind reels. He slams into the side of the Impala, not really seeing where he is, and gouges the key into the driver's side door trying to unlock her. He’s in the driver's seat and turning the key before his racing thoughts can come around to _what the fuck is wrong with me?_

Question of the century, that one.

Ever since Sammy learned to drive the Impala, to hustle pool -- ever since his first hunt -- Dean has looked at his brother and seen more than just that kid he grew up with. As they both develop into competent hunters, into men, he sometimes sees his brother in a way that makes him stare, that honestly kind of scares him.

Now, when Sammy’s all he’s got, it’s become more like an obsession. Gotta protect him, keep him close -- but where do you draw the line with a relationship like theirs? The feelings swell within him, make him sick sometimes, and when Sam asks what’s wrong Dean can’t tell him, because he honestly doesn't know.

He's chalked it up to nerves, to the exuberance after a hunt, to aberrations in his genes or even something that he ate. But that night, Dean looked down at his brother and found no explanation for the way he felt. Only... stirrings, deep inside, inexplicable and disturbing.

He’s dealt with it before. He’ll just have to deal with it again --

\-- so Dean shakes his head to clear it, throws the Impala into gear, and drives like a bat out of Hell away from that dingy motel, out away from the lights of the town until he’s passing through miles and miles of gently waving grass. The fields go on across the horizon in a rustling, sweet-smelling sea. 

He finds a tractor trail and turns off the paved road, grimly clutching the steering wheel as he jostles along. Wind whips through the open windows, fluffing his hair, stinging his face and forcing his eyes to a squint.

He drives through the endless grasses for what seems like an eternity before he arbitrarily stops, slamming his foot on the brake, driving the pedal to the floor and slamming himself forward. Dean sits there, his foot the only barrier between movement and pause, his mind casting about for something to grasp -- a lifeboat labeled sanity in the vast ocean of his fucked-up life.

Eventually he puts the car in park, almost absently shutting off the engine. The wind of his passing is naught but a gentle breeze; a light, richly-scented zephyr. It stirs him, and on his inhale something clenches low in his gut. 

Images flash through his mind; Sam's grin, his expressions of glee, anguish, bemusement. His strong, tanned hands grasping a gun, flying over his laptop, running through his hair.

Dean groans, shifting in the seat. The feeling simmering below his stomach manifests itself, slung about his hips, making him bite his lip and grind his thighs together. The friction, however sweet, does nothing to allay his apparent need. Sighing, frustrated, Dean wriggles until he’s comfortable, slouched beneath the steering wheel, and fumbles for the seat back lever. He flings himself back, letting the blood rush to his head. Slight pain, shock. Anything to delay the inevitable...

But the feeling floods back, and stronger, in sickening, heated waves. Dean can't keep his mind from pushing through memories, finding those small, cherished moments when he'd looked at Sam and found him utterly, devastatingly beautiful.

_I am a freak, a fucking monster._

And the heat swells, answering his thoughts.

As Dean lets his mind wander, his hands do too. Independently animated, they stroke his taut stomach, his thighs, the growing bulge beneath his zipper. Feeling like the lowest life-form that ever crawled the earth, he pops open the button of his jeans and unzips, taking himself in hand. He focuses on a particularly scintillating memory of Sammy staring at him through half-lidded eyes, a sly smile playing about those full, flushed lips. It was one of the first times his brother had gotten drunk, in one of those faceless motels, and he'd danced his way across the room to AC/DC. Sam didn't even remember it. Dean would never forget. 

As in his memory Sammy sways -- _you shook me all night long, yeah, yeah, you_ \-- so Dean strokes himself, growing harder with every pass of his hand. His lips part, whispering his brother's name to the windswept grasses, to the car, to the steadily lightening sky. His hand slides, strong and sure, over and over, tugging at the head of his cock and twisting down the shaft. He’s panting, gritting his teeth, images of Sammy flashing through his mind until the whirlwind beauty, his surging need, and the sick feeling in his gut combine and tears spring at the corners of his eyes. 

He’s close, so close.

His mind lights on a recent memory, when he'd accidentally walked in on Sammy changing and saw his brother's slim, pale hips, his ass, his golden back, the wonderful spare frame that housed the person most precious to him. He has every line of that body memorized, but to see him -- Dean’s breath had run out like he’d been punched. Thinking of it now sends a rush of heat down his spine and he can’t help the groan that wrenches itself from deep within him.

The hand on his cock isn't his, it’s Sam's. The breezes blow and he feels them as his brother's hot breath on his cheek, his ear. "Oh, god, Sam..." Dean groans, his thumb sliding raggedly up into the weeping slit, massaging the slick back down, and then his orgasm hits like a wall of liquid fire, prickling over his entire seizing body all at once. He cries out wordlessly just as the sun crests the horizon.

A lone ray strikes the rear view mirror and hits his eye, but he’s already blinded. Unbidden tears drip down his face, staining his shirt, to mingle with the stringy substance coating his hand and jeans. _God help me, I don’t just_ want _him._

 _I honestly think I love him_ , Dean realizes helplessly. _I... what the fuck do I do?_

Numbly he contemplates the encroaching light, the life he leads, his altogether sudden but fated conclusion.

Eventually Dean sits up, turns the key, and drives back to that dingy motel.

By the time Sam wakes up, his brother is waiting with breakfast. And if Dean's eyes seem a little red, Sam doesn't mention it.

  
* * *  


They drive to another town, after that, to do another job. They gank another monster, and sleep off the fight in another oddly-papered two-star motel room.

Dean tries to bury himself in their work, tries to go to sleep every night in the twin bed next to Sammy's and just turn his brain off. He tries so hard not to be that monster, the only one he can't shoot or salt and burn.

But where there are no thoughts, there are dreams.

He starts waking up in the middle of the night, sheets twisted around him, dick half-hard, throat hoarse from panting. One day Sammy even mentions that he's been talking in his sleep; Dean smiles a smile that doesn't reach his bloodshot eyes and purchases sleeping pills.

Sam worries about his brother. The worry gnaws at him like a parasite. Even when his mind is completely occupied -- when they’re fighting for their lives, when Sam is researching on a deadline -- he feels the slow, steady, sickly burn, knowing deep down that there’s something wrong with Dean.

They fight with demons, vampires, shape shifters. Hunted by the FBI, by Lilith. Sammy falls prey to his addiction, and Dean fulfills his contract. He goes to Hell and Sam goes to his own personal dark place, demon blood and debauchery. Even when Dean comes back, visibly unchanged, the brothers are intrinsically different, a byproduct of their seemingly innocent choices and this damned life they've always led. Their very existence tangles and snarls, but throughout it all and despite their differences they’re still together. 

Even when angels enter the picture and Dean is thrown into a whole new mess, he still has dreams that keep him hot at night, that barely let him rest.

He’s been spending more time out of their shared rooms, wherever they happen to be -- drinking late at the bars, going somewhere with a willing partner and fucking until he can’t stand, anything to forget for a few scant hours the mess of his life and the hole deep within him. It sends him deeper into despair when he realizes that all the men and women he fucks end up sharing qualities with his brother -- brown hair, hazel eyes, that quirky dimpled smile, even timbre of voice or sense of humor. He finds no solace, anywhere, but he refuses to stop looking.

When they do sleep in the same room, Dean’s slumbering moans become part of Sam's own dreams, which devolve into new nightmares. These are nothing like the precognitive terrors brought about by a yellow-eyed demon's forced destiny -- these dreams shake him to the core. One he remembers despite himself, a zombie apocalypse where he is forced to run for days, every building full of the things, no weapon potent enough to even scratch them. When he finally succumbs to exhaustion and fear, collapsing on cracked asphalt, the zombies tear his clothes and his flesh from his body and perform terrible, terrible acts with their mouths, hands, and rotting genitalia. And all of them moan with his brother's voice.

A few nights the two of them wake up pointing guns at an empty room because they'd each heard the other scream -- Sam has no idea that Dean’s exclamation isn’t one of terror.

After months of this, of barely sleeping, with each other constantly on their minds, Sam and Dean are steadily sliced and skinned down to one tender mental thread.

One calm night they check in to a place that rents bungalows, rather than rooms. Theirs is on the far end, abutting an orchard of some kind. The waning summer leaves a scent upon the air that, when Dean stretches and inhales on their porch, reminds him of slow, resigned decay.

He's been jaded all his life. Why not be poetic about it?

Sam joins him, then, and the brothers stare out into the deepening darkness. Neither speaks, each a soothing enigma, a familiar presence comforting the other, even as they both wallow in confusion -- Sam at his wits' end worrying about Dean, and Dean sicker than he's ever been over his feelings for Sam.

He almost turns to his little brother and tells him to leave him alone, but he is just so tired of denying this yearning he feels. It sings in his bones, sends thrills through his core whenever Sam shifts beside him. As the sun slips below the horizon, Dean heaves a soulful sigh and gives up, resting his head on Sam's shoulder.

Slightly confused, Sam stands without moving, staring at nothing and letting his brother relax. He can’t remember the last time Dean touched him -- casual contact has become some kind of taboo with Dean ever since he came back from Hell.

He’s completely unsure of the proper thing to do, so he just lifts a hand to Dean’s hair and swirls his fingers through the short strands, like Dean would when Sam was sick. He thinks he hears his brother’s breath catch, but it’s a small sound, easily mistaken in the rustles and insect songs of the early night.

Dean’s hair is soft, and smells faintly of cheap shampoo. The scent mingles with his general aura of sweat, gunpowder, and the Impala’s leather seats. It’s a unique smell, one that Sam could never mistake for anything else, and as he inhales he finds himself smiling. _No matter what happens_ , he thinks, _I’ll always have my big brother_.

His hand slips from Dean’s hair to his neck, massaging slightly. He feels his brother relax, so he keeps at it, pleased to be helping after so many nights just sitting there, worrying, unable to understand or fix what’s wrong. Dean’s skin is warm and smooth under his fingers, a hint of stubble on his jaw creating a rasping roughness that Sam can’t help but touch. He thinks back to when they were kids, when Dean’s face was baby-smooth, but still so much more adult than Sam ever thought he himself could be. 

A noise shocks Sam from his reverie, and it takes him a moment to realize what it is. In that moment, Dean jerks out of his grasp and stalks inside, slamming the door. 

Sam replays the moan, over and again a few times, before deciding he’s more than a little confused. He inhales deep the scents of nightfall, and heads inside.

The TV’s on and the shower is running behind the closed bathroom door. Sam can tell by the way the water falls so steadily that Dean isn’t actually in the shower, but probably sitting on the toilet lid, breathing in steam. He approaches the door cautiously, hesitates, then raps once, twice.

Silence, for a few moments, then a steadily rising growl that turns into “What, Sam?”

Not Sammy. 

Now Sam knows something is really, truly wrong, and he’s scared for his brother, so he tries the doorknob -- it’s locked.

“Dean, what’s going on?”

The water beats upon the plastic shower stall for interminable minutes. Sam can hear shuffling from inside, a thump like Dean’s hands have hit the tiny counter. He imagines his brother standing there, hanging his head before the mirror like he always does when something strikes him low -- when he thinks no one can see him quietly succumb to the fringes of despair.

Sam rattles the knob again. “Dean, whatever’s going on --“ he feels stricken, about to panic “—we can fix it, just please, let me in.”

Dean grumbles something that’s lost in the rush of water. “What?” Sam calls.

“I said no one can fix me, Sammy!” It’s not a shout, it’s more of a howl. 

Undiluted fear shoots through Sam’s veins, and his heart hammers in his chest. “What are you talking about?” he asks loudly, to be heard through the door as his forehead thumps into it.

His hand is still on the knob, so he feels it when it turns, so he’s not caught stumbling forward when the door is yanked open and a sweaty, shirtless Dean is standing in the doorway, his glower just barely covering the mass of emotions -- fear, despair, something altogether darker that carries heat -- that Sam can plainly read beneath it.

He is his brother, after all. 

For a heartbeat they just stare at one another, Sam’s face a mess of heavy concern, Dean’s rapidly closing off. Then he reaches to shut the door again and Sam’s long arm is holding it open, stuttering it against the wall as Dean yanks it. “Just let me sit in here,” Dean grates out, the muscle on his arm tensing, collecting steam droplets. 

“I want you to tell me what’s going on,” Sam says forcefully, his own arm taut. They stare at one another, this time it’s a battle of wills and Sam wants beyond anything to be the one who wins. 

Too many sleepless nights, avoided glances. Too long shut away from the only person he could consider constant in his life.

After untold moments Dean caves, slumps, lets go of the door. His head bows and he just stands there, all the fight rushing out of him along the steam tendrils from the shower, past Sam and out into the open room.

Then he's stalking straight to the nightstand between the beds, and his handle of whiskey.

He lifts it and chugs it, hard, and Sam stares shocked for half a moment before he's striding across the room, yanking the bottle away, and spinning Dean around to face him. His brother's face is flushed, his pupils dilated. Sam can see the alcohol suffusing his system.

Suddenly, all he wants to do is shake him.

"Dean, what the hell is --"

Dean's jaw twitches, he leans up on the balls of his feet and then his lips are brushing against Sam's lightly, hesitantly.

Sam is too shocked to pull away. He can't even speak. His mouth forms Dean's name before it's covered, plundered by the most desperate kiss he's ever received.

Dean can feel the tension building in his baby brother -- not a baby any longer, so large and muscular he feels dwarfed in comparison -- and knows he's got maybe seconds before he's shoved away and made to explain. So he brings his hand up to cup Sam's cheek, slides it along the firm jaw to thread through that floppy mane of hair and cup the back of his neck. He breathes, deeply, sharply, in through his nose, and runs his tongue along Sam's lips as they close.

Then he's being shoved, hard. Liquor sloshes onto his chest from the bottle Sam's still holding and then he's hurtling backwards, bouncing, flipping over the bed, landing hard on his knee and rolling to a halt against the door. The pain sends a sluggish shock through his body and all he can do is laugh.

Dean is laughing and it's a harsh, empty sound resounding with self-loathing and abandon. Sam can't move, his feet are bolted to the floor. He just stares at his brother. He can still feel the slick slide of Dean's tongue against his mouth. He has to forcibly refrain from licking his lips, they feel so odd, because he knows what he'll taste if he does.

He wants to ask but doesn't want an answer. All he can do is stare, waiting for Dean's terrible laugh to wind down, because he knows this is the part where everything that's been building for years up to this or some other point is about to cascade loose.

Sure enough, the laugh dies quietly, and Dean is laying there propped up on his elbow against the door with the most sorrowful look on his face. His burnt-jade eyes are wide with pain and Sam just wants to hug him, comfort him -- but now he knows that just makes things worse.

So he waits for Dean to speak.

"I, uh... I used to think I was born damned, or broken," he finally says, with a little self-deprecating chuckle. Sam shifts, looks at him like _what the fuck, Dean, I'm just as broken as you are_ , but Dean's stare is burning holes in the floor. "Then I finally realized, I made this. I just wanted to protect you, but it turned into something terrible."

Strong fingers mash into the stained carpet. "Sammy, you're my brother, and I love you."

This is completely incongruous at first, and Sam opens his mouth to say something like _yeah, you complete 'tard, I love you too_ , but then it strikes him in context and he snaps his jaw shut, feeling bewildered and lost and a little betrayed.

 _How long has this been going on?_ He wonders dumbly. Then: _How can you just go and turn what we have into something like--_

Dean looks up at him. His expression is gut-wrenching, and suddenly Sam realizes that if he doesn't say something Dean may leave, and not come back. He may go destroy himself with too much of a good thing, trying to fill this hole inside himself that Sam is only just now aware exists.

So Sam lifts the bottle of liquor to his lips, takes a long, dizzying swig, then eases over to kneel on the floor beside Dean. Offers him the booze. His eyes have not left his brother's, and as Dean takes the whiskey for a long pull he’s searching them, so Sam puts on what he hopes is a reassuring face.

He has no idea what to say.

His heart is thudding from the vicinity of his intestines and he's just not quite internalizing the implications of what's happening. He feels like maybe he wants to forget, to go back to a time when they were young and carefree and not so smashed to pieces and when he couldn't still feel his older brother's goddamn tongue on his lips. Sam re-accepts the bottle and tosses back some more, feeling it trawling through his veins taking some, but not enough, of the panic away.

Dean knows Sammy well enough -- more than enough -- to plainly read that he has no words for this, that he feels utterly confused and abandoned by his big brother in this completely unexpected turn of events. Dean had anticipated no less, even if he had at times dared to hope, and had of course envisioned their first kiss going much, much differently.

But it's out there now, hanging in the air between them with the increasing humidity, as the forgotten shower spits out half the state's water supply and steams up the place. Dean's studying Sam's face as it flushes from the drink, wondering what he'll say when he finally decides to speak, and also wondering if he shouldn't just leave. Go hustle pool and drink til he's sloppy, stumble to someone else's place and forget himself for awhile. Maybe forever. His stomach, already tied in years-old knots, clenches tighter. Maybe he just ruined this life they live, for good.

Then a flurry of emotions are racing through Sam's eyes and his brow is furrowed like it always does when he's concentrating and he's leaning in incredibly, impossibly close --

Sam poises micrometers from Dean's lips and murmurs, "What can I do to help?"

The puff of air carrying bourbon and breath and _Sam_ hits Dean’s nostrils and continues through him as a cresting wave, and it's all he can do to not capture those lips and devour them. The nerves in his own lips are singing. Dean swallows, too loudly to his ears. "You don't want this, Sammy," he says in an agonized tone, and something flickers across Sam's face. He pulls back just far enough to take another drink, his cheeks growing redder -- Dean has always known Sam can't hold his liquor -- but then he's back, the most teasing distance away, his breath ghosting across Dean's parting lips as he whispers, lost: "I don't know what I want."

_Well, I do._

Dean closes that distance before Sam can draw his next breath, capturing liquor-soaked lips, and inhales sharply as sparks explode along the leylines of his body. Heat pools between his hips and he fights back a moan because _holy Hell, Sam’s not pulling away_. His arms encircle the broad expanse of his brother’s back, drawing him closer. It's an awkward angle with him still mostly horizontal from his landing, but Sam holds him steady, barely straining.

Sam is wondering if he should be enjoying this so much. _It's the alcohol_ , he insists to himself, but then Dean's tongue runs across his closed lips and he's not thinking anything at all as he opens his mouth and lets his brother in. Their tongues clash, dancing around one another, each mapping a mouth the other never dreamed to taste. Dean is in an increasing state of bliss warring with pent-up need, and Sam is just trying to keep up and not think about it.

Whatever his big brother needs, for all those times Sam failed him.

Plus, all the self-righteous sentiment in the world can't hide the fact that he's actually getting turned on by this kiss.

Dean's fingers are tangled in Sam's hair, and when he yanks on it for leverage Sam gasps into his mouth. They break the kiss, panting, hovering near the floor with their hands overlapping and their faces less than an inch apart. Dean's pupils are blown wide, and Sam's are beginning to do the same. 

Slowly, Dean grasps the bourbon bottle, and heaves to his feet. He offers a hand to Sam, who takes it, shaken. They stand there, in front of the door, Dean looking up at his younger brother like he's heaven on earth.

Being looked at like that will do something to even the most jaded of fiends, and Sammy was always the sensitive one. He feels a rush building low in his stomach, feels his dick swell, constricted in his jeans. He knows without looking Dean is hard too. This might have freaked him out, earlier, but now he simply takes the proffered bottle, knocks back what's left, and with a grin takes his shirt off.

Bourbon floods his veins along with the rising heat and he doesn't even care about weird or wrong anymore. It's been too long, and Dean is obviously willing.

Their mouths meet again, and this time Dean is the one who gasps. _When in bloody Hell did he get so good at this?_

And then: _holy fuck_ , Sammy's _kissing_ me.

His jeans become almost painfully tight as Sam does something with his tongue that ignites Dean's nerve endings like millions of tiny sparklers. Dean's hands are running over every inch of his brother's exposed skin, memorizing the feel of what he'd tried so steadfastly to ignore. He finds one of Sammy's nipples and, remembering how his brother reacted to the hair pull, tweaks it hard. Sam arches, hissing into their kiss, his hand finding Dean's ass and driving his hips forward in a clash of cloth and heat. Suddenly they're rutting against one another, with little moans at the friction, and the kiss breaks off so Sam can latch on to what he couldn't possibly have known was the incredibly sensitive spot where Dean's shoulder becomes his neck.

Sam has walked in on Dean with a girl more than once or twice. One time he even watched for a bit, and Dean never noticed he was there. It never occurred to him, and still hasn’t, that maybe he wasn't watching the girl.

His fingers find the sweet spot on Dean's slender pelvic ridge, peeking just above the waistband, and he digs his fingernails in. Dean grunts, it turns into a growl and he bites down on Sam's neck, hard. Sam's cock twitches, his entire blood supply rushing to it, black spots dancing before his eyes. The sound he makes is low and unfamiliar, and saturated with desire.

Dean is lost, he’s riding the tide inside him, and all that’s running through his head is a litany of _god, fuck, Sammy, yes_ \-- he slides a leg around behind his brother and trips them backward on to the bed, pausing to grin at Sam’s blown, heavy-lidded expression before swooping in for another kiss. He nips his brother’s lip and savors in the mewl that follows. 

He’s walked in on Sammy, too -- he knows his brother is pretty damn vocal.

_Let’s see how many of those noises I can get you to make._

Because even so far gone as he is, in liquor and in lust -- Dean knows this can’t last.

But there’s no thinking about that, or anything, when Sam rolls his hips up just right and now Dean’s the one moaning. It happens again and Dean clashes against it, driving Sam down into the mattress, loving the way his brother grunts and swears. They find a rhythm and buck against one another, lips and teeth and skin releasing sweet sweat in the heat of the room, of each other.

Dean can’t stand it. He has to know, has to feel Sammy. He slides to the side, legs still wrapped around Sam’s hips, and snakes his hand between their legs.

Sam is drunk, and Dean knows it’s been awhile for him -- he’s so intent upon their battle of tongues that he doesn’t notice what Dean’s doing down below until he feels the humid air against his swollen cock. He gasps, jerks back, eyes wide, but Dean’s got him in hand and once, twice, he slides his hand along the length, and Sam’s head falls back, eyes crossing.

Dean smiles. He knows how good it feels to have someone else drive.

He wants to revisit those pebbled nipples, but can’t tear his eyes away from the sight of Sam wriggling underneath him, needy little noises escaping him as he jerks his hips up into Dean’s hand. His cock is enormous, swollen rosy flesh with a delicious vein throbbing along the length. Dean plays with pressure, different motions, finding what his brother likes, until one sound Sammy makes just drives him over the edge and he has to taste him.

One fat, pearly drop of precome glistens at the tip of Sam’s cock, and Dean slides down to deftly lick it off.

The sound Sam makes is exquisite. Dean shudders, sweeping his tongue over the cock-head and suckling it. His own erection is painful, trapped in his jeans, so he planks up, still lapping Sammy’s cock, and frees himself. His hand closes along the familiar length of his own dick, but as he starts to jerk himself he feels a hand atop his own.

His mouth leaves Sam’s twitching erection because now he’s gaping up at his brother, who’s raised himself up on his elbows to give him the most lustful stare ever made in his direction. It feels like every drop of blood in his body has flown south. He can feel every faint caress of Sam’s fingertips as his own hand falls away. 

Sam clenches Dean’s cock in his fist, and Dean sees stars. His arms give out and he falls atop his brother, who grunts and lets out a low, sensual chuckle that follows his hand down Dean’s length. Dean’s hips jerk spasmodically, begging Sam to go faster, a senseless babble of _Sam_ and _yes_ and _please_ falling from his lips. One of those jerks scrapes the head of his cock along the length of Sam’s, and they gasp in unison. Sam opens his hand to encompass both their erections and Dean feels like he could die from it.

His fevered lips latch on to one of Sammy’s nipples and his fingers find the other one, and they’re just moving now, lost in the circling waves of ecstasy. Hands and lips knead sensitive places, Dean’s blunt nails scrape down Sam’s chest and they're writhing together, the rhythm perfect, a lifetime of moving in tandem translated into something rapturous, consuming.

Dean hears a keening wail that rises and echoes within the room, through his entire being, and he realizes it’s coming from both of them as his orgasm hits like a lightning strike. They come together, violently, twin spouts of stringy fluid coating their stomachs, and as it’s pumping out Sam’s twitching beneath him, his eyes rolled back into his head, mouth hanging open, and Dean can barely see for the white creeping over his vision but he knows he’ll remember that sight forever.

Then he’s collapsing, spent, to drink in the afterglow and the fresh-sweat smell of his brother.

They don’t move for a long while, and when they do, it’s to clean up and collapse -- not in separate beds, as Dean fears, with a sudden jolt in his gut -- together, limbs entwined, one of Sam’s hands lazily swirling patterns through Dean’s hair.

For the first time in years, neither brother has a nightmare, or even makes a sound as they sleep.

  
* * *  


Sunlight streams in through a crack in the curtains and hits Sam right in the eye, and for a moment or two he has no idea where he is.

His arm’s asleep. He tries to move it, and finds it being held down by someone sleeping curled up to his chest. Yawning, he rubs his eyes with his free hand and inhales, deeply --

\-- and all he can smell is sex, and Dean.

Oh, god.

What little he can remember comes rushing back in bourbon-tinted waves, and he feels like he might be sick. _I did -- with my brother -- oh, fuck, and he --_ Sam’s mind whirls frantically, and suddenly he really, really needs to get out of that bed.

But Dean isn’t just curled up against him, he’s hugging his arm like a stuffed animal, and he is deeply, completely asleep.

Sam looks down at him, and through his panic realizes that Dean is sleeping, really sleeping, peaceful and silent. He even has a small smile on his lips. Not a nightmare, Sam marvels, and for a brief moment he is simply happy. He realizes he feels rested, something he hasn’t experienced in god knows how long.

Then he remembers why.

Throwing caution to the winds, he slides his arm out of Dean’s grip and rolls out of bed as smoothly as he can, and to his immense relief and no small surprise, his brother doesn’t wake up. Then Sam dashes to the bathroom and brings up all that whiskey until he’s dry-heaving, his face streaked with tears.

He feels… wrong, dirty, and utterly ashamed. _I didn’t help Dean_ , he thinks helplessly as he slumps against the toilet. _Guaranteed I made things a million times worse_.

When he leaves the bathroom, he knows without looking that Dean is awake and studying him, and all the love he does have for his brother can’t keep the sick expression off his face. 

“I’m getting us some breakfast,” he says as he leaves the room, just so Dean won’t think he’s running away -- even if he is.

Dean wakes up in an empty bed to the sound of retching, and is allowed no peaceful reverie. He knows exactly what’s going on -- he’s always held his liquor better, so he remembers everything in exacting detail, which makes the current situation worse. He remembers Sammy’s lust-blown eyes, the way he laughed, that rich, indulgent sound that struck Dean with a shiver in his very core. His hand moving in strong, sure strokes.

Knowing his little brother didn’t actually want to do any of that makes Dean feel like the scum of the earth. Still, he can’t keep himself from seeking Sam’s eyes as he exits the bathroom, still in his jeans from last night. The sick look on his face ties Dean’s stomach into knots, speeds his heartbeat til it’s like a jackhammer against his ribs.

Then Sam looks away, and leaves.

The door clicks shut and Dean is so disgusted with himself that he curls into a ball beneath the covers, trying not to think or feel anything.

  
* * *  


It gets easier, after that first day.

Sam doesn’t speak directly to him for almost a week, but the strain begins to ease almost immediately after they get in the car, and put that town behind them. Dean focuses intently on not seeming tense or off, and he sings along with his music as he drives to keep his mind from wandering. When Sam has to say something, he says it in the direction of the window, or to his laptop, keeping eye contact to a minimum, but Dean is just glad his brother hasn’t left him in the dust.

He has no idea why, and decides it’s better not to ask.

The first time Sam looks him in the eye to tell him something, Dean simply nods and continues the discussion, not even allowing himself a moment to rejoice. It’s just another day.

Over the course of a month Dean expends less and less energy focusing on maintaining his gruff, easy manner. Sam, still quieter than was his norm, does the research and when they’re ganking monsters together he’ll even touch Dean on the shoulder to get his attention. They move from place to place, do the jobs, and flip their fake I.D.s with all the confidence they had before. 

But of course, even as normality returns -- such as it can be for the Winchesters -- nothing between them will ever be normal again.

Another year passes, and the boys mature from grown children into hardened adults. Friends die, they die. Sam lives without a soul and he says and does things that make Dean's own soul shrivel within his chest, and by the time Sam gets it back his brother is all but dead inside. Dean’s time with Lisa and Ben has become a faint memory, but that’s all right, because they were only ever a fanciful escape.

That one night in that one dingy motel has all but been buried under layers and layers of dingy motels and diner food and various partners and the constant slam and drain and flux of the hunter's life.

But of course, such things are never truly forgotten.

  
* * *  


Another hole-in-the-world town, a back-country bar. Dean's working his mojo on a local girl. She's a petite, brown-haired thing with wide, blue eyes, and he doesn't know her name.

“I haven't seen you here before,” she says. Her finger traces the ring left by her beer bottle on the worn counter top. Dean refuses to break their gaze, grinning. “Just blew into town. Wasn't really sure what to do for the evening.” He gestures with his glass. “Glad I came in.”

“Mm, me too,” she says, her voice light like a summer breeze but her eyes, they belie darker things that Dean just knows he'll like. He's human, after all, and even with his entire life being one long B-movie, he knows what makes him feel good.

There's a bit of pain -- barely a sting, anymore -- at that but he moves past it, reaching to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear. She blushes, nothing innocent about it.

“What beer is that, again?” She holds it label-forward. “Oh, Sweetwater stout. Yeah, my --” _ignore the pang, there, man_ “-- brother likes to have that one, sometimes.” _Why'd you bring him up?_

“You have a brother?” Her eyes widen. “Does he look like you?”

“Not really,” Dean says, aiming for nonchalant. He thinks he misses it by miles but she's chuckling. “And I'm much better at most things.”

“Hmm, I bet,” she teases, but she's not turned away by his apparent machismo so that's a good thing. He just... he's not even sure why, but he needs to seal the deal.

“What's your name, by the way? Mine's Dean.”

Her eyes flare with something he likes. “Samantha.”

That should be a deal-breaker, right there, but she's pretty and willing and it's been too long.

He flashes her a smile that's all fox-in-the-henhouse. "Mind if I call you Sam?"

  
* * *  


Her lips on his in the alley behind the bar are too soft, and they taste like dark beer and the last remnants of her raspberry lip gloss. She's pliant, her tongue is skilled, her hands soft as they seek the back of his neck and card through the tufts of his hair. He's willing himself to enjoy this more fully, to seek his release in that mindless way he'd never really been able to achieve. Especially with that name hanging potent between them, in the space when they draw breath.

Samantha asks him back to her place with an ease borne of experience and he accepts, his eagerness for all the wrong reasons still a catalyst to her. She doesn't need to understand him, not any further than it takes to know what makes him tick, and in that he is frighteningly simple. He knows and she doesn't that he'll get off a lot sooner than normal just being able to call her by name.

They tumble into her apartment gracelessly, clothes flying, skin meeting skin and arousal soaring through their veins. Dean falls into the act all too easily, a routine of motions and reactions that he's long had memorized. He makes her squirm, and moan his name, and it's simpler than breathing air to gasp the nickname he gave her and feel the rush within his pulse. “Sam,” he'll say, and she'll purr, tugging his bottom lip with her teeth. He'll taste her and make believe he's tasting someone more familiar, feel her smooth hairless skin beneath his fingertips and almost be able to transmute it in his mind to something harder, her curves becoming planes. 

Samantha knows there's a reason this man wants to call her by that name. He's lost, she's sure of it, she can see it in those pools of green he calls eyes. At the bar he'd seemed interested, but only vaguely, no matter what he'd done to hide it -- until she said her name. Then she saw interest, pain, and a glimmer of hope. She gave in and took him home because, hell, aren't we all just chasing something that can never be caught?

She sinks on to his cock with an appreciative moan -- he's quite the steal, even with the baggage -- and rides him like he wants her. 

Dean grasps Samantha's slender hips hard enough to bruise. She's tight, that wet heat fucking down on him the best sensation he's had all week. And he can imagine, even if it's wrong, that those breathless moans are coming from a larger frame, in a deeper voice. 

He's so fucked up it's almost legendary. 

Pleasure and guilt come in companionable waves, now. Dean rolls them over, and as the girl's legs wrap around his waist he pounds into her, hiking her up the mattress until she's clutching at the headboard, his name falling from her lips like rain.

He realizes he's probably working her too hard and pulls back, sliding out to dive back in with less force. She clenches around him. “You won't break me,” she whispers, and it takes him by surprise.

“It's okay,” she says, her hands caressing his back. “Take what you need.” The caress becomes nails, raking lines through his skin, and he tosses his head back and plunges, deep, striking within her and basking in her startled cries.

 _You gave me permission_ , he tells her, unsaid. _You gave me permission_.

He pulls out and flips her, ramming into her from behind and she fairly screams, an orison of simply “yes, _fuck_ , Dean!” the mantra she harmonizes with the rhythm of his thrusts. He's not paying any attention. She's not even Samantha anymore. He has transcended beyond imagining and now he's actually fucking the one person he must never touch again, and it feels like a cinematic reunion of souls.

“Sam, Sam,” he chants, panting, fucking her so deeply that now her words are mostly curses. He can feel his orgasm creeping up from the soles of his feet, stinging heat in the cells of his skin, spreading over his body in a blanketing, searing chill. He gives in to it, clenching his ass and spearing the girl, and he strikes so deep she screams and when he comes, his vision blanks out. The name he roars is hers and it isn't.

They come down from the high in a trembling tangle of limbs, and she strokes his sweaty head and murmurs nonsense that falls on mostly deaf ears. Dean is spent, drifting in a sea of post-sex haze but it isn't enough, is never enough to black out completely the dull pang of guilt and black desire.

He doesn't stay the night. He never does, anymore. She fixes him coffee for the road and when he crosses her threshold, she says one more thing to him:

“Just because you're damaged, doesn't mean you can't be whole.”

Three blocks from her complex, the coffee mug hits a wall and shatters.

  
* * *  


In a dingy motel room, at a careworn desk, Sam Winchester stares at his laptop screen and tries to focus on research.

He knows where his brother is. He always knows. Sometimes, he wonders what it would be like, to not even care who he's with, to lose himself in the sheer simple pleasure of the act without getting attached.

He knows he's not wired that way, but it never hurts to wonder.

Sam runs his fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp. He can't focus on the hunt. There will always be more monsters, but there is only one of him and there will only ever be one of Dean, and he's ultimately much more interested in his brother's well-being than this mysterious something that might be a poltergeist. 

There's a familiar tang to his thoughts as they churn, and a flash of imagery he automatically dampens. He's got a near-perfect memory -- he can try to ignore those sweeps of scenes, reactivated by sensory stimuli, but he can't forget. A niggling little part of him wonders if he should even want to forget. _It made your brother happy_ , that treacherous part whispers. _Don't you want Dean to be happy? Neither of you really know what that's like, anymore._

Sam shakes his head as though the rattling will shake those memories and that voice right out of his ears. It's always the same, and that's why he keeps a flask. He slides it from his pocket, takes a swig, wincing at the bitter sting. Dean would wonder, if he were here to see, and then his eyes would darken when he jumped to the conclusion that it was his fault.

Dean always thinks it's his fault, and Sam always says it's not -- even when it is. Because enough has been Dean's fault, he deserves to be off the hook for at least the small pieces Sam can control.

He takes another swig.

The clock on the bedside table clicks over to two a.m., and just as Sam is registering that yes, it really is that late, he hears the scrape of a key at the door. It creaks open, and a familiar golden head peeks around before his brother's body follows it, eyes shifting from curious to _oh, he's awake_.

“Heya, Sammy.”

Sam never bothers to correct him anymore. “Hey. D'it go okay?”

The broad grin doesn't touch Dean's eyes, not entirely, but he fakes it. “Well enough,” he drawls, striding across the room, shedding jacket and overshirt as he goes. His boots are tossed in the general direction of the door, and then he's flicking on the bathroom light, and Sam can see both his reflection and exterior from the corner of an eye.

Dean looks used up, like a vessel with no energy. He's got perpetual circles under his eyes and the laugh lines are steadily being replaced by marks of worry. Sam can read in his brother's tensing shoulders that tonight was just another notch in a series of something not quite sustaining, that Dean was probably hoping would work better than it had.

Now that he's back, the smell of sex slowly permeates the room, and Sam's nostrils prick despite his desperate desire to ignore it. He'd known where Dean was. He always knew.

Without moving more than he has to, Sam takes another, surreptitious swig from the flask.

When Dean speaks, Sam can hear the raised eyebrow. “Since when did you carry?” 

_Goddamnit_. “It's just easier this way,” Sam says, his voice roughened by the alcohol and disuse of the evening. He can read Dean's acquiescence in the reset of his shoulders just before his brother shuts the bathroom door, quietly. The shower kicks on like the coda to a song they should be tired of singing, and the hiss reverberates between Sam's ears.

 _Don't you want to help him?_ That inner voice is back. Sam would be convinced he'd gone mad if it weren't for the fact that he now knows what voices in one's head sound like, and this one isn't anything sinister, just his own selfishness.

“How in the fuck can I help him,” Sam mutters to himself, even as he thinks _talking to myself, hmm, what stage is that?_ “I'm stuck in some kind of limbo, where I can't comfort him _or_ leave him.”

Either one would destroy Dean. Sam's caught between love and _love_.

Dean lets the hot water wash like a chorus over his skin, closing his eyes and tilting his head beneath the stream. He's tired, so tired, and all tonight has proven to him is his own desperate, clinging need for something he never really had, and never will. He swims through waves of self-loathing, head barely above the surf. _I used that girl as a surrogate_ , he growls at himself, sickened. _I can't even forget him for five fucking minutes._

 _How can you possibly think to forget him?_ his mind whispers back. _He's Sam. He's your brother. He's the one you've loved for years and years, the one you wish you could hold when you clutch a pillow and try not to dream. He's the one you've bled and died for, why would you think you'd ever be free from something so..._

Dean can't think of the word. Absolute?

He feels his fingers starting to prune and decides enough is enough. Maybe, if he takes a few of those downers he's got stashed, he'll make it though a whole R.E.M. cycle before he's up and thinking again. The bathroom tile is cold beneath his feet when he steps from the water, a cruel juxtaposition to the steam that clings on his skin.

Perversely he decides to walk out there wearing nothing but a towel, weary and not even worried about popping an unseemly erection. _There's no way I could get it up again tonight, anyhow._ Stamina he has in spades, but exhaustion has been his closest confidant for years now and it always takes its toll.

Well, that is until he walks into the chill of the room and meets Sam's eyes, reads what's lingering there.

Dean zips open his duffel with what he hopes is casual speed, digging for his last pair of clean jeans. They'll have to do laundry soon. He's loathe to drop the towel in the face of that stare so he ducks back into the bathroom, sliding the door nearly shut, calling around it, “So, any luck with this thing we're hunting?”

“It's probably a poltergeist,” Sam replies, and is his voice closer than it should be? Dean zips his jeans and leaves the towel on the floor.

He's stepping around the bathroom door and then there's Sam in his personal space, lanky frame long since grown past gangly, the warmth of his proximity seeping through Dean's skin. Sam's hazel eyes are wide, unreadable, and the fingers of one hand twitch like they don't know what to touch first.

Dean hopes beyond hope this is what it feels like, even if he grew past hope so long ago.

“Sammy?” His voice drops into that husky register and he regrets it, but it's done now. He keeps his eyes wide, unassuming, moving like he would around a frightened animal as he eases more fully into the less-humid space of the room proper. The bathroom heat is making his back sweat.

“Dean,” Sam says, and he has to clear his throat. He's not exactly sure why he stood up, only that he knows what he's seen for so long it's not funny anymore, never was, and he is more tired than he ever thought possible of trying to forget. “Dean, I --”

“Sam, whatever it is, can it wait until morning?” Dean's rebellious mouth, running without him again. He really is tired, but he doesn't think he can sleep. Not when Sam slips his bottom lip between his teeth and worries it a little, trying to suss out his answer. And when he says “I don't think it can,” and his voice is layered with so many things, well. Dean slips into a smile he hasn't worn in ages, the _c'mon, little bro, you can tell me anything_ fabric-softener smile. 

And tries to ignore the way his heart is racing.

“Lately... well, for awhile... for _years_ now we've been avoiding the elephant in the room and I just don't even know,” Sam blurted, color rising on his cheeks. He fingers the shape of the flask in his pocket -- and Dean doesn't want to think about when _that_ became a constant -- like he wants desperately to down its contents. “I think we should talk about it.”

“What's there to talk about?” Dean doesn't know where this voice comes from, like chocolate melted by the summer sun. That's normally a sentence he would snap at someone, and here it is sliding out of him with absurdly smooth calm. He can't even tell what his face is doing. Sam must find it reassuring, though, because he perks up before continuing.

“I just want you to be happy, Dean.” Damn, the kid's eyes can shine when he's earnest. Dean feels the all-too-familiar surge of warmth along his nerves, as constant a companion as breathing. He's been denying it fiercely since that night, but now he just lets it sing under his skin. It's like a golden moment in time.

“I'd love to be happy, Sammy,” Dean says, but the golden moment shatters when his voice cracks on his brother's name. He winces, slides to the side for a clearer shot into the room, no longer wanting to see the gamut of emotions on Sam's face.

“I'd love to make you happy,” comes the smallest voice he's heard from Sam since the kid hit puberty in stride. Dean can't help himself, his head is snapping around, and he's gaping like a fish before the most naked longing he's ever seen on that face.

 _What is going on?_ Dean can't breathe. _What is this -- after so long -- what is he doing?_

“You mean the world to me, Dean,” Sam says, still in that small voice, stepping forward with one hand up, palm forward like he means to place it on Dean's bare chest. Dean doesn't know if he can handle that. He doesn't want Sam to feel his hummingbird pulse, vibrating through his skin. He takes a step back and knows instantly it's the wrong decision; Sam's face slams shut atop hurt that burns Dean to the core. He steps forward, hands out, placating, stammering,“No, no, Sammy, it's okay, it's --” just as Sam balls his fists and steps forward, growling, “Why are you always --”

It's a spark from one to the other like a Tesla coil, bright and beautiful. 

Sam makes a decision in the space of an instant, the most important decision of his life, all because _Dean_ would do anything for _him_ , and he has always tried to do the same.

“I'm happy when you're happy,” he breathes, and closes the space between them to press a chaste kiss to Dean's dry lips.

For Dean, time simply stops. He feels his brother's kiss like a benediction, his every synapse singing aloud. He's floored, unmade, he can't think or speak or even respond. His hands tingle at his sides and he aches to seize and claim and devour, but he doesn't know what's allowed. This is territory so uncharted it's galaxies away.

Sam seems to sense his reticence and reaches out, grasping Dean's nerveless hands and placing them around his waist. He tilts his head to deepen the kiss, running his tongue along the seam of Dean's lips even as his hands slide up his brother's tense back. Their chests collide and with a sound like he's dying Dean opens his mouth to suck Sam's tongue in, inhaling his gasp. Sam's hips buck into Dean's, his tongue sweeping inside Dean's mouth to learn the contours like he's drawing up blueprints, and Dean holds him in the fiercest embrace.

Always a pragmatist, Dean has never been one to look too closely at something that's clearly too good to be true. He figures there was something unholy strong in Sam's flask, that he'll regret this again in the morning -- but he doesn't question it. He can't -- he won't let himself deprive himself of one more taste. 

Because Sam is the best thing Dean has ever tasted.

Sam's long fingers clutch at Dean's back and Dean bites his brother's lower lip, pulling him impossibly closer and walking them backwards toward one of the beds, still kissing him like the world is ending. Sam doesn't seem to mind -- in fact, he's laughing into Dean's mouth, and it's that sound Dean's always adored and has heard far too little of these past few years. He grins against his brother's lips, shoves him down upon the mattress. Sam sprawls, flushed and smiling, his limbs and hair flopping languidly. His shirt hikes up and Dean is instantly focused on that strip of skin above Sam's waistband, the way the flesh hugs his hipbone. Dean lowers himself to nip at that rise and is gratified, empowered, by Sam's little breathy “oh!” He slides his hands up, helping Sam struggle out of the shirt and then he kisses back down that long, long expanse of tanned skin, stopping to tongue a nipple and smirk at Sam's little squirm. He looks up and holds Sam's gaze as he trails lower, and lower, licking a stripe over each jut of the pelvis before directing his attention further south.

Sam knows he's made the right choice. The look in Dean's eyes -- Sam can see that his brother still doesn't trust that this is real, but who can blame him? This is like a steak in front of a starving man, you have to prove to him that it's not a mirage. Even if he can taste it, he still denies to himself that it's there. Sam wants this, he does, more than he ever thought possible, more than it makes him uncomfortable. And it shouldn't, anymore. Who else is more perfect for him than the person who knows him best?

Not to mention that Dean's lips are like nirvana, his body a blessing. The way he moves, sinuous grace learned from a life of danger. His eyes flash a deeper green and Sam swims in them, enamored with the way his delighted laughter is drawing his brother back out of himself, adoring the attention. He never wanted just a quick fuck, not from anyone -- and Dean is the longest-term relationship Sam has ever had.

Dean's at work on his zipper before he can recover from the shivers of breath on his skin. Sam knows where this is going and his cock twitches, already half-hard and swelling. He wants it. He wants Dean. He threads his fingers through Dean's short hair and tells him so, in a voice he barely recognizes as his own. Dean looks up at him, then, as his fingers work under the waistband of Sam's jeans and pull them down with his boxers, freeing his cock to bob up against his stomach. He is painfully hard now, and as he watches Dean's eyes blow wide and black, that gorgeous mouth drop open mere inches from his cock, Sam feels the last of his blood supply rush south and then all he can say is “Please...”

His brother's mouth on his erection is Sam's glory hallelujah.

Sam keens and bucks up into Dean, arching back into the mattress, his eyes so heavy-lidded they're practically closed. Dean takes as much of Sam in as he can, sliding his brother's heavy cock back into his throat, the rich warm taste of him swamping Dean's senses. He pops back up and then licks down, hollowing his cheeks and taking great pleasure in the way Sam tosses beneath him, cursing feverishly and _Dean, fuck, don't stop_. Dean wouldn't stop for anything, and he hums this on to Sam's skin.

Silk on steel and he claims every inch, again and again, memorizing his brother's cock with his tongue. Dean could live on this, fat drops of precome that he licks from the head, Sam's rolling groans and his breathy little gasps, the way Dean's name drips from his lips like a prayer of absolution. It doesn't feel like a culmination, it feels like a beginning -- they have both been remade since that night, years and billions of moments ago, and so it can almost be said this is brand new.

Sam fucks Dean's mouth in a breathless frenzy, as well as he can with his brother's strong hands holding his hips in place. He cants upward, cursing, trying with all he has to bottom out in Dean's throat, feeling Dean's chuckles and hums like sweet static. He wants them all, all of those sounds and the sensations they raise, wants to keep his brother hovering over him like this forever --

Dean pulls off with a succulent pop and Sam's brain scrambles, the chilled air wrapping his flesh in the absence of a mouth and driving all that heat to a spot behind his balls. He shivers. All he can do is pant, pull himself up on his elbows and give Dean a look through shrouded lids that he hopes can clearly convey the vast, horny nothingness currently occupying his headspace. Dean's response is to laugh, not a cruel sound, but teasing and back-lit with a lifetime of denied desires.

Sam realizes this won't end quickly, that Dean has been waiting for far too long to give in to his basest instincts now. He'll string Sam out to a chattering set of fine-tuned atoms before he lets it all go. Sam can see himself already, lost and undone beneath his brother's clever hands, his cock, and a little moan escapes him. 

Fine tremors roam his musculature. Dean revels in them, in the spastic twitch of his brother's ruddy cock. Sammy's packing and it's glorious. He wants to take his time, wants to bask in each and every sound dripping from those lips, but right now he's looking at Sam so undone, and he knows he was the one who did that, and all he wants to do is taste him again and again. He wants to... he _wants_.

He slides Sam's jeans and boxers all the way down those long, long legs, dropping them unneeded on the floor. Then his arms are sliding under Sam's knees and he's chuckling at his brother's huff of surprise. _Oh, just you wait_. He nuzzles the tender flesh of Sam's thigh, letting his breath raise gooseflesh, drinking in the musky scent of him. Sammy smells like home, like the idea of perfection that they as Winchesters were never privy to. Dean presses a light kiss to Sam's sac, then another, slightly lower, and Sam's breath hitches and a whine starts before he even --

Dean's tongue flicks across the tight little ring and Sam's vision explodes into bursting stars. He had no idea whatsoever that he was so sensitive there, and when that skillful tongue licks around, teases and then dips in, Sam has no control over what's falling from his mouth, a litany of curses and his brother's name again, and again, _oh, fuck, Dean, fucking hell that's good, you, oh god_ \-- Dean's tongue works its way inside him and he can't help it, his hips jerk downward, he wants to feel that more, deeper, _please_. Dean's heated laugh strikes and then his tongue speeds its rhythm, fucking in and out of Sam's tight little hole and Sam is loving it, begging for it.

The way Sammy curses him when he's only just begun, now this is a special kind of Heaven. Dean's loving the way his brother tastes, the salt of his sweat and his own unique flavor and Dean laps it up like warm milk, tonguing his way inside Sam's body to twist against the silky flesh within. He pulls back, flicks his tongue across the perineum again just to hear his brother squeal, then he's sitting up, back on his ankles and away, and Sam can't even muster a glare. He just stares at Dean, and there are worlds unmade in the heat of that stare. Dean smiles. “Flip over for me, Sammy.”

Sam doesn't say anything, just fucking _scrambles_ , those long limbs flailing over themselves. He presents that pretty little hole to Dean like it's Christmas morning and hell, maybe it is. Dean leans in, licks languidly around and fucks his tongue in once, twice, delighting in the way Sam jerks toward him. After a moment he's adding a finger beside his tongue, easing it in. He knows it'll burn, and he waits, until that ring of muscle relaxes and then he's stroking Sam's ass, purring, “So good, baby boy, relaxing for me,” and Sam can't even snort at the moniker because Dean's pushing that finger in. 

His tongue made the way easier, Sam's hole is spit-slick and slightly opened already, but he keeps his pace slow, steady, pausing at the first knuckle to give Sam another chance to relax. He has to laugh when Sam wriggles down on it and pants, “You know I won't break,” because it's funny, they're both so very breakable and have been broken, many times, but he gives in and slides that finger in til it bottoms out. He feels the flutter of muscles and his own cock swells, a surge of heat sliding through him when he thinks about how that's going to feel when he finally, _finally_ enters Sam. He realizes he's overdressed for this when his erection grates painfully against his zipper -- this situation was not in the plan when he went commando this morning -- but he distracts himself by crooking the finger he's got buried in Sam's body, searching for that little bundle of joy.

He knows he's found it when Sam arches, his whole body tense, a high-pitched slide of air from his lungs caressing Dean's ears. “Ah, that's it,” Dean murmurs, pulling his finger out to the second knuckle and then easing back in to nuzzle the prostate again. Then again, and again, picking up a rhythm, leaning back down to tongue the flesh that's stretched so invitingly around his finger. He lets a little bit of spit dribble there, slows his movements, and adds the tip of a second finger.

Sam feels the stretch and knows it's burning but really all he feels is pleasure, spiking from the source, spiraling out to his extremities. His cock is so hard it feels like it should be painful too, but as he's fucked on Dean's fingers it just bounces against his stomach. His hands are fisted in the hotel sheets so tight they might be losing circulation, and Sam can't spare the concentration to unclench them and touch himself. He's utterly focused on Dean's fingers, the knowledge that it's _Dean's fingers_ pushing inside him, making him feel this way -- he knows it wasn't easy to come to this but god almighty, is he glad he made this choice.

Dean's adding a third finger, easing the way with his saliva and deft flicks of his tongue, and every time he slides those fingers in deep enough that Sam forgets to breathe, he hits that sweetest spot that punches any breath Sam might have taken right out of his lungs. It's something he never -- Sam could not have comprehended this, the dart and swirl of sparks that dance in his vision to the timing of Dean's thrusts, the way they coalesce and kaleidoscope when Dean touches that place deep inside him. His breathing is ragged and harsh to his ears but all he knows is those fingers.

Then Dean pulls them out, slides back, stands up. Sam turns to curl up like a cat and watch his brother, and with a start he realizes that as tense as he'd been, caught in that rapture, he was actually a whole hell of a lot more relaxed than he thought. And now that he didn't have something glorious happening down below, his cock is demanding attention, drooling precome all over his belly and in the trail of hairs leading to its base. Sam opens his legs and brings a hand up to stroke himself, hissing when his calluses slide against sensitive flesh. Damn, he's _hard_. He strokes as he watches Dean unzip his jeans to reveal no boxers and a hungry erection, flushed deep red and pearling at the tip. Dean takes his shirt off, too, then slides back up the bed all serpentine and the sexiest thing Sam's seen in awhile, grasping Sam's hand on his cock and jerking it, slowly.

Something clicks in Dean's other hand and some still-logical part of Sam's brain labels it lube, and then he's watching Dean slick himself up. A teasing finger circles his entrance and Sam whines, completely involuntarily, loving the smirk on his brother's face when that finger dips back in. Sam stretches his legs out on either side of Dean, stroking his brother's legs with his feet, dipping his chin so he can stare up at Dean with all the lust he's feeling. Dean grins, licking his lips.

Then, like a switch is thrown, he's completely serious. Both hands still and he stares into Sam's eyes like to break the connection would kill them both. Sam thinks it might.

“Do you really want this?” Dean asks. No pet names, no jokes. He's about to take his brother's virginity and wants to make sure it's Sam's desire, too. 

Sam heaves a breath and tries to open his eyes wider. He knows he must look completely fucked out but he also knows this is the most important thing Dean has ever asked anyone. “I do, Dean,” he says, and his voice is steady, despite the strong hand on his cock and the finger still just slightly up his ass. “I want you.”

Dean sighs in relief, the sound of it rolling over Sam's skin, and then he's moving again, doing something with his wrist as he jacks Sam's cock that makes it twitch and drip a little more, rotating the finger that's playing inside to make sure Sam is stretched wide enough. 

Because Dean is big, not massive but certainly sizable, and when Sam feels the blunt head of his brother's cock probing his entrance, he has to force his body not to overreact.

He bites his lip without thinking and Dean stops, the look of concern on his face simply heartbreaking. “I'm fine,” Sam says, and he manages a little laugh that says _go on, already_.

Dean nods, and moves his hips slowly, so slowly -- and he's pressing inside. 

The stretch is unpleasant, at first. Sam can't help but bite his lip again even as he's nodding, canting his hips up to allow better access. He brings one leg, then the other to rest around Dean's hips and he takes him in, inch by inch. He studies Dean's face, seeing exactly what it's doing to his brother to go so slow. He tries to imagine what it's like, the searing tightness, and his own cock twitches, burping precome.

Dean is lost in Sam, sliding deeper inside him than he ever thought to go. Those fluttering muscles clench, constricting around him, and he knows Sam is trying his hardest to relax, to let Dean in, but he's tight, so tight. Dean feels the prickle on his skin, first vestiges of sweat, and lets out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding as he bottoms out, nestled deep within his brother. They breathe once, twice, together. Sam gives an experimental wriggle, and rocks his hips.

“Okay, I'm good,” he says breathlessly, “now _move!”_

Nobody has to tell Dean Winchester twice. 

He slides out, slow as you please, then snaps his hips and slams back in, punching Sam's prostate so hard that Sam howls, arching right off the bed, his blunt nails scrabbling at Dean's back as Dean slides out and slams back in, beginning to establish a rhythm. Sam's legs lock around him and he's thrusting against him frantically, reaching for every last bit of the sun-flare ecstasy that only Dean can give him.

Sam never imagined sex could feel like this. With each powerful thrust he becomes more of an animal, mindless, ravenous, impaled upon Dean's cock and loving it, his voice a separate entity that rises, screams, raspy little fucked-out noises with Dean's name and some blasphemy attached. “Fuck, Dean,” he howls, caught between his own thundering heartbeat and the timing of Dean's thrusts, “fucking hell, you _oh my fucking god_ don't stop, don't ever stop!” He's strung out and mainlining and he wants to feel this way forever, if you could bottle Dean fucking you and sell it -- but no, he wants it all for himself.

And he looks up at Dean, moving above him like the god that he is, and Sam knows it's only them, forever. Call it saccharine sentimentality but he knows, as sure as he can feel his brother through his pores, that they will never want or need another living soul again.

Dean's got a hand on him then and all thought flies away. It's just them, rocking on the mattress, sweat-soaked and dripping, their eyes locked and Sam's legs closing tighter and tighter around Dean's waist. They're breathing together, Dean's cock swelling even larger within Sam and Sam's own length practically weeping, speeding toward their release and when it hits, oh, it's like a hurricane -- they come together in a flood of endorphins and other sexual chemicals but to them, it's white-out vision and spreading heat and the most amazing, soul-stealing rush down every nerve at once.

Sam comes so hard he blacks out, and when he comes to, he's still coming.

Dean comes so hard he loses his grip on reality, and feels himself become one with Sam writhing beneath him.

They lose themselves in it, hips jerking, minds blank, and when Dean's arms give out and they regain control of their lungs they laugh, breathless, high as can be on each other.

Dean's nuzzle into Sam's sweaty neck says, _the world may end when the sun comes up, but this is all I ever needed_. Sam's kiss on Dean's dripping forehead says, _I know, me too, thanks for waiting_.

They fall asleep like that, naked and sticky, not wanting to let go of each other, not now that they've come together so completely. And if Dean wakes up in the middle of the night, cleans them off and re-situates them so Sam's cuddled in his arms? That's because he feels a love so fierce he can't find the words, and rather than try he's content to simply show it for the rest of their days together.

  
* * *  


When the sun rises, the world doesn't end. 

Sam wakes up curled against Dean and enveloped, feeling happier than he has in the longest time. He shifts, careful not to wake him, and when he looks down on his brother's sleeping face he can see that Dean no longer looks so burdened. He's wearing a little secret of a smile, and Sam can't help but grin like a fool just knowing that he was able to make that a reality.

 _It took me long enough to see it_ , he thinks as he settles back down, _but we were always made for each other_.

Dean huffs against his neck, and Sam feels a prickling at the corners of his eyes. _That's the only way things could ever be_.

Soft puffs of breath on his skin become lips, and teeth, as Dean wakes up and decides to claim his Sammy all over again. 

Sam's not complaining.

  
* * *  
_epilogue_  


Two weeks down the road in yet another two-star town, some backwoods cluster barely gracing the map. One gas station, one motel, one diner.

When the brothers stop in that town for the night, they check in to the motel under the names Scott and Young, and then go to the diner for dinner. Sam wants his customary salad; Dean is just looking to sate his craving for blueberry pie. When they slide into the booth, their knees knock together and there's a brief, blushing moment when they're both remembering last night. All the nights these past few weeks. And all the mornings after.

Sam finds himself doing that a lot, lately -- blushing like a teenage girl with her crush. But he finds he doesn't mind so much, and why should he? Sam loves Dean with his whole heart, more than he ever thought possible, and the man does things to his body that make him tremble finely just remembering. 

Sam always knows where his brother is, only now it's because he's right there with him.

So when Dean shoves his face full of pie and grins, teeth and lips blue-purple from the berries, Sam smiles back beneath knowing eyes. Neither of them know exactly how many days they have left, but they certainly know with whom they're spending them.

 

*FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> If you liked this fic, please consider leaving kudos/a comment. I really appreciate feedback. ♥


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